Said Sugar (make it slow)
by AvaRosier
Summary: Derek owns a bakery café. That in itself sounded like the punchline to an unfunny joke. Café Luna had limited hours, served no frou-frou drinks, had only the bare bones of décor, and yet managed to be a huge hit with the locals. Lydia Martin saunters into Café Luna on a Wednesday.
1. Combine the Ingredients

dedicated to doubledeez06, thatfilmgirl, and athena606.

Derek owns a bakery café.

That in itself sounded like the punchline to an unfunny joke. Café Luna had limited hours, served no frou-frou drinks, had only the bare bones of décor, and yet managed to be a huge hit with the locals. He wasn't sure how that had happened- the whole business venture was started up with little cash, little investment, and basically served as a therapeutic outlet for his internalised aggression.

At first, people had come in, curious about the new café, and proceeded to confidently order their favorite 'Venti, Non-Fat, No Foam, No Water, 6 Pump, Extra Hot Chai Tea Latte,' only to be pinned down with a glare from the café owner.

Ever so slowly, as if to make sure it sank in, Derek would shake his head.

"No."

Sometimes he'd even flash his eyes red, let them see the Alpha, for extra effect. It worked, yes, but the thrill of having an Alpha werewolf in Beacon Hills seems to have brought even greater throngs of customers to the tiny café. An _unmated_ Alpha, with a small but fledgling pack, in a smaller town like Beacon Hills? Tourist magnet.

Of course, it meant a lot of customers were coy women and fawning teenage girls hoping to catch his nose. When their primary plot failed, they would decide to at least snap a picture with their phones. Derek made sure to stare straight at the flash every time.

Then he mostly took to hiding in the back. His Betas could deal with the customers. Maybe his idea of managing the café was less appropriate for humans and better suited for dogs. Meh. They were still forking over the cash at a fairly steady pace.

So, he hadn't started his business for the coffee, but if he was going to serve it, it would be as black as his disposition. Stiles had told him once, "Your coffees are black like your soul and sartorial style."

But it was Derek's pastries that proved the real draw to Café Luna. It was actually how he managed to create his pack. It was rare for there to be more than one Alpha werewolf amongst siblings, but both he and his sister, Laura, had shown the signs by the time they came of age. They'd agreed that Laura would be the one to take over the primary pack, and he'd strike out on his own.

He'd picked from amongst some of his best customers, figuring that their loyalty could be gained through their stomachs. As it stood now, his branch of the Hale pack consisted of him and three and three-quarter Betas. Scott hadn't agreed to join the pack, so he counted only as half. And…Stiles Stilinski….loathe as Derek was to admit it, would pretty much come with Scott as a package deal, so he was the final quarter. It turned out that maybe choosing Betas from amongst his hungry customers wasn't the wisest route to take where his sanity was concerned.

Erica didn't understand how a David Boreanaz wannabe like him could churn out such scrumptious cheese-and-cherry danishes. That was a fair assessment. He was nice and only added two weeks of cleaning the bathroom to her usual duties. Boyd was convinced that it was Derek's deep-seated anger that made him such a good baker. "It's got to be the rage he puts into pulverizing the dough," he would explain to her while in Derek's earshot, "gives it those flaky layers." Derek appreciated that Boyd was attempting to learn the intricacies of baking, so he stopped making Boyd's favorite cinnamon rolls. It was always good to instill an appreciation for the things you loved.

Derek was well aware that Boyd and Erica spent enough of their paychecks covering the various sundries they ate out of their workplace. Isaac had accused him at one time or another of having an evil master plan- as long as they worked there, they would be tempted to eat the pastries and drink the coffee, preventing them from saving enough money to leave. Whenever Isaac said this out loud, the fourth employee of Café Luna would just give him a dirty look. Scott McCall wanted to be anywhere but Café Luna, but he had no choice but to work there.

It had been all Stiles fault, really. Derek was well aware that it was Stiles' obsession with werewolves that had brought the two men into the café two months before. Scott hadn't even wanted to set foot in there because he had found his mate, Allison Argent, who worked part-time at her family's chocolate shop- which was in somewhat of a rivalry with Derek's café. Derek had dated Allison's Aunt Kate, and the relationship had not ended well. So, Derek had to endure Chris Argent's passive aggressive overtures in town from time to time.

And Allison's father apparently hated Scott, who kept insisting that Chris would probably be able to _smell_ Café Luna on Scott the next time he came to visit Allison under the pretense of buying (not cheap) chocolates for his mother. Which, given that Scott was the werewolf and Chris Argent the human, was ridiculous.

It had been Stiles who had dragged Scott into Café Luna. It was Stiles who had been staring at the baked goods, face practically pressed against the display case glass when Derek had cleared his throat from behind the counter. (Past efforts to put a bell on him so that he couldn't lurk behind people had failed.) Stiles, being Stiles, had flailed backwards into Scott, sending him crashing into a wooden table, shattering it into pieces.

_Who the fuck_ spends so little on the interior design of their café, but splurges on one-of-a-kind, expensive, handcarved redwood tables? Derek, for one.

And this is how Scott had been conscripted into working off the $439.20 that he owed Derek. So, yes, he was well aware that his other employees having a hard time resisting the banana nut bread was not exactly '_Mein Kampf_' to Scott. These were the self-absorbed idiots that Derek had to spend hours with several days a week.

Lydia Martin saunters into Café Luna on a Wednesday.

Derek is unloading lemon bars off his tray and onto the display plates when the bell over the door jingles. He glances over; an inborn habit to make sure it wasn't a threat to his pack. (You see, he did _care_). He quickly does a double-take and his hands freeze mid-action.

When he and his siblings had been younger, their family members had regaled them with tales of what it had felt like the moment they met their mates. "It was like when I was a child, sitting on my father's shoulders and watching the fireworks bursting in the skies on the Fourth of July," his grandfather had said of seeing his grandmother smile in his direction. His grandmother had been human, but even humans experienced their own 'revelation'. Colleen Hale had told her grandchildren in a whisper (as if every damn werewolf in the house couldn't already hear them), "Do you know, when I saw him staring at me in the street, I could've sworn I smelled _lemons_."

It was a regular feature in Cosmo, a section called '_Matelicious Miracles_!' where readers would write in; describing the moment they met their mates. Laura had always read those out aloud, much to Derek's annoyance- he had been convinced most of those testimonies were hogwash because they were excessive and over-the-top:

"Honestly, I had dismissed the whole Mates thing as nonsense and didn't think it'd ever happen to me, most humans don't end up Mated and all. I wasn't like my girlfriends, making profiles on and all that. But then I was sitting in the dentist's office and Will was sitting there with a magazine. I thought he was a cutie pie, but then he looks up at me and our eyes met. And even though I wasn't Turned at the time, I swear I heard what had to be angels singing, followed by the smell of freshly baked oatmeal cookies- because I associate those with the comfort of home and family, you see. I couldn't be sure, but I think right before he walked up to me and said, 'Hi', I could taste tomato sauce, which was weird. But then later I found out that spaghetti with marinara sauce is his favorite meal. I mean, what else can you do? Fate is fate!" –Jenna, 27, Portland

But then again, those magazines recycled the same damn article at least twice a year '_How to Attract Your Own Alpha_!' and '_Beguile a Beta_!'

For Derek, though, it's none of those things. He takes in her shiny reddish mane with their precisely placed curls and her generous lips slicked with bright berry lipgloss, and feels like he's breathed in a lungful of aconite.

"_Oh_," he manages to grunt.

His mate makes a scrumptious, tiny picture in a deep purple dress with pink blossoms, which swings flirtatiously several inches above her knees. She looks to be around his employees' age, twenty-four.

But she isn't looking at him, or having an epiphany of any sort. Instead she is perusing the café, taking stock of the lack of amenities, and giving a disappointed little hum. Pursing her lips, she stalks up to the counter.

Isaac had been manning the till when she made her way over. At least, he was until Derek shouldered him aside with a muttered, "get lost." His usual sceptical glare had melted away and he gave her his most dazzling, charming smile. The one that Stiles referred to as the 'Serial Killer smile'. He searched his memory for the best words to say, the very first words he would say to his mate- words she would someday tell their pups about. They need to be brilliant. What comes out instead, after a lengthy silence, is:

"Hi."

She glances at him then, and her attention flickers down to his hands. He realizes then that he's still holding the tray half-filled with lemon bars. Derek doesn't let his smile dim a single watt, just swings the tray behind him to where he knows Isaac still is, probably confused about what had gotten into his Alpha. There's a soft '_oof_' and a grunt. Derek doesn't worry. _He's a werewolf, he'll heal_.

[Stiles has figured it out, Derek can hear him furiously asking Erica, "_Is that it, has Derek found the Mrs. Sourwolf?_"]

Derek elects to ignore everyone else in the café and instead finds his wits.

"What can I get you?"

The woman before him doesn't take her eyes off the menu she was reading above his head right away. After several seconds, she glanced down at him and gave him an unimpressed arch of her eyebrow.

"I'll cut to the chase here. My name is Lydia Martin and I'm in the market for a new café to frequent. I come in on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Mondays. The last place I went to used to have the best pastry in the entire town but then there was a decline in quality and the management continually ignored my suggestions for improvement, and now they've lost my patronage. And my Twitter followers' patronage as well. I predict they go out of business in six more months." She leaves the warning between them like a gauntlet.

Derek had visibly deflated with every sentence.

He isn't _glaring_, but his expression is carefully blank and his response the tiniest bit caustic. "Well, we'll just have to win you over. What do you think you could deign to eat today?" Lydia raises an eyebrow at his challenge and then her gaze pans over the baked goods in the case before she sighs in mock resignation. "The selection is awfully…rustic…isn't it?"

His nostrils flare. And then he realizes what he couldn't earlier, not over the smell of coffee and sugar and yeast. His mate is an Omega. And Omegas were rare and notoriously hard to woo. They were neither completely human nor completely shifter. The one Omega that Derek had met before, he'd been affected somewhat by the moon, but he never physically shifted more than in the eyes and sometimes the nails of his hands. He could smell and hear better than most humans, and Derek was praying that Lydia _(Lydia, Lydia, my mate's name is Lydia. I get to say that name a thousand times, Lydia, Lydia) _was just being picky and certain. It wasn't completely unheard of for there to be an unrequited imprinting, or for a mate to reject the other anyways.

"Well, we clear $50,000 a month and haven't had any complaints. And," he bends over the counter so he could display the corded muscles in his arms, letting his voice drop to a seductive rumble, "who knows, maybe you'll like roughing it." _Steps One and Seven: Make sure your Mate knows you can provide for him/her; let it be known to the Mate-to-be that they can find their sexual needs met with you…check and fucking check. _

Her eyes widen. Behind her, Stiles is mouthing a slow, drawn out "_oh…my…god_…"

But the diminutive redhead before him just gives him a saccharine smile. "Well, I certainly wouldn't have any trouble being able to afford to come in here every day of the week," she reaches into what looked like an expensive designer bag and pulls out a $10 bill, which she flicks in his direction.

"Surprise me," she purrs, turning around to saunter towards one of the tables next to the window.

"As you wish," he bites out.


	2. Bake at 350 degrees for 35 minutes

None of this is going the way Derek had expected it to. He storms past Isaac, who is still standing there with the half-full tray of lemon bars. In the kitchen, the Alpha werewolf finally allows himself to release a growl of frustration. All that is saving him from telling her to fuck off is the tiniest tug upwards of her lip that Lydia had given him when he all but propositioned her earlier. His mate is testing him, and there's a part of Derek that already loves this quality in her. His wolf wants to please her. There had to be reasons why this Omega woman is an Alpha's mate.

He has several things ready for consumption, and he needs to make a good impression with his choice of treat. Derek pauses before the enormous marble counter and takes in a deep sniff. His nose alights on a still-warm blackberry pie.

He carries out the slice of pie on the cleanest blue plate he had lying around. Lydia is waiting with a book open in front of her and at a distance, Derek can make out advanced mathematic equations on the pages. He slides the plate onto the table next to the book. While he had been getting her food ready, Erica had gotten her an order of coffee. Derek's nose picks out their Colombian blend.

Lydia nudges her book to the side and pulls the plate closer so that she can subject the pie to her scrutiny. Before she can lift up her fork and have a taste, Derek sets down a tiny jug of cream.

"Here. For the pie," he supplies unhelpfully.

"That's not necessary," she demurs, "I like my blackberry pie to have some…bite." _Soon, I will show you biting_, he thinks.

"I'll leave this here, in case you change your mind. Sometimes things taste better with _cream_."

And because he's completely tuned in to Lydia right now, he detects an increase in her heartbeat. There is a rustling under the table as she tightens her crossed legs a fraction. Derek gives her a dark grin in victory, which she does not appreciate, given the way she presses her lips tightly together and exhales sharply through her nose.

Lydia turns her attention back to the pie and violently scoops a forkful into her mouth. And then she_moans_ audibly around the fork. Derek forgets to breathe. As he stands sentinel, Lydia demolishes the slice of pie, licking every trace of blackberry juice off the fork as she goes. She doesn't stop until she's consumed every last crumb, and when she has, _she lifts the plate to her mouth_ and _licks it clean_.

Dimly, he hears Stiles let out a broken sob, "_Mary, mother of God_..." and Erica next to him whistling. "That was hot."

Satisfied, Lydia dabs at her lips with a cheap paper napkin.

Finally, she looks back up at him and smiles, "Not the best I've had, but I guess it'll do." With that, she pulls her book back over to the center of the table and continues her reading.

That was Wednesday.

That night he fantasises about pouring chocolate sauce and raspberries over Lydia's body and eating it all up, and fists himself roughly until he makes a mess all over his sheets. The next day, he constructs a flourless torte with chocolate ganache and tops it off with raspberries. It's a hit, and the extra $275 they make that day manages to buoy his temper, and not even Stiles, Erica, and Isaac's attempts to give him relationship advice can ruin it. Even when Stiles' idea of 'advice' sounded an awful lot like he was getting his information from the National Geographic guide to wolf mating behavior.

Honestly, he was doing _just fine_ with Lydia Martin.

On Saturday, she strolls in looking more casual than she had the last time she visited, wearing jeans and a pale yellow sweater. The _click-clack_ that accompanies the motion of her legs tells him that she's wearing heels anyways. He suppresses a snicker. She really is on the short side. He's not stupid enough to point this out to her, though. She's even lovelier like this, simple save for the complicated looking braid that binds her hair and falls over her shoulder, brushing against the top of a breast. Derek feels like he's been struck dumb all over again.

The café has too many employees that day. It's only supposed to be Derek, Scott, and Boyd; but Erica, Isaac, and even Stiles are taking up a table near the counter so they can eavesdrop on what Erica had termed 'the disaster that was Derek's game'.

Lydia has a triumphant smile on her face when she approaches the counter and puts down another ten-dollar bill. _Let's see how you do this time_, is her unspoken challenge.

Derek decides it's time for a frank conversation with Lydia. She's already taking out a MacBook and some notes when he brings her treat of the day: banana nut bread with warm vanilla icing. Boyd had served her a cup of the Ethiopian Tchembe, so he's going for a theme with bananas.

He chooses the more presumptuous option and sits down in the booth across from her. His jean-clad knees brush against hers and sparks race along the nerve endings in his legs.

"You're my mate," he declares without preamble. But she just gives him an noncommittal hum, sipping her coffee and reaching for the plate of banana nut bread.

"I'm not your mate until I say I am." The tip of her tongue sneaks out and licks some icing off the fork. Unbidden, Derek gets a picture of that same tongue, pink and warm and wet, darting out to taste his cock. Unfortunately, the little moan he lets out was audible to her ears and Lydia's eyes twinkle with amusement.

_Shit._

Derek's face scrunches up in confusion, "You either are or you aren't. I don't like playing games."

She snorts with derision, "Some biological imperative makes us "soulmates" and means our relationship will work out perfectly? Bullshit. Being struck dumb by the smell of _chlorine_ does not guarantee anything. And it's not a game."

"Biology is a pretty good guide, it's always up to each Mated pair to make their relationship successful. Chlorine? Is that what you smelled the day you walked in here?" Derek hopes not. That sounds like a stupid Revelation to have where he is concerned.

"_No_. It's not a game because my parents were Mated betas, and their marriage fell apart anyways. I think it'll take more than basic genetic compatibility to make me say 'I do'." Lydia sounds resolute when she says this, which has Derek sighing internally. As much as the primal part of him wants his mate to be his _right now_, he wants to do this right. And that means being patient.

"Alright. I can do that," he nods his head. "What's your favorite color?"

She looks at him incredulously, "Really? _That's_ what you're leading with?"

He gives her an unrepentant grin and shrugs. "Gotta start somewhere."

She doesn't answer him directly but instead nudges the empty plate back towards him, "Banana nut bread isn't my favorite, but this one is somewhat tolerable." He doesn't stop smiling, or even get pissed, just takes the empty plate and heads back towards the kitchen.

"And, Derek?" His name sounds good on her lips.

"Yeah?" He turns around and tries not to look too hopeful.

"I may be an Omega, and I may not have as good an ear as you, but I think you were lying when you said you didn't like this _game_ we're playing. Deep down, you like proving your worth to me." Isaac and Erica whistle pretty loudly at that.

A flush creeps up his neck and he decides to get out of there before he needs a cold shower. Lydia is humming a jaunty tune behind him. He passes by Scott, who's ringing up a customer's coffee order. The younger man has a smirk fixed firmly in place on his face.

"Wolf got your tongue, Derek?"

_Forget murdering him, Derek was going to tie Scott up and leave him on Chris Argent's doorstep._

Erica is practically nipping at his heels when he enters the kitchen.

"Not bad," she drawls. "A bit dorky and artless, but we can't all be perfect, can we?" Derek just growls at her and makes her go wipe down the windows. That'll teach her to come in on her day off.

And then he's left with Boyd in the kitchen as he sets Lydia's plate down by the sink. Boyd is more measured in how he chooses to approach the topic of his Alpha's hopefully-future-Mate.

"It sounds to me like she's high-maintenance, and used to having to keep up a façade. You put enough feet of brick around your heart, you'd get used to people not being willing to try to accept you, barbed wire and all. It can make a soul lonely and bitter. She's probably lived her life this way for years, making it hard on people and always expecting them to give up and disappoint her. Makes a woman like that difficult to love."

Derek has learned enough about Boyd over the past two years to know the taller man is speaking from experience.

"You telling me to Abjure her?" The thought horrifies him.

"I'm saying, prove her wrong," Boyd counters.

Derek knew there was a reason he had offered Boyd the Bite. He decides that Boyd is his favorite Beta now and resolves to make double the usual batch of cinnamon rolls tomorrow.

"I tasted aconite when she walked in, you know," he muses as he dries the now clean plate.

Boyd chuckles and pats him on the shoulder, "That'll do it."

Sunday morning, he wakes up to sticky sheets and the residue of a wet dream that he thinks involved Lydia, handcuffs, whipped cream, and his cock. He's off that day but he scratches out plans for a lemon custard pie with a mountain of fresh whipped cream in his notebook and thinks he'll make it in the café tomorrow.

The following Monday, Lydia is perched at her usual table with a telltale brown bag. She's wearing a confection of pink and lace and has a burgundy leather jacket on over it all. Her legs are bare again. They look extraordinarily smooth, and Derek wishes he could just kneel before her and let his tongue trace a path from ankle to panty.

He overhears her conversation with Stiles as he headed over to their corner.

"What's with the _Argent Chocolatiers_ bag?"

She is merciless. "Oh, that? I felt like having a treat I actually enjoyed today," she says, waving her hand gaily.

Derek growls under his breath, but sets down a plate with a strawberry and vanilla custard tart in front of her all the same. She consumes it in the same manner she has everything he's served her, that is to say, she gives him plenty of fantasy material for tonight. Stiles' mouth is gaping open, but a glare from Derek has him windmilling back into his booth, and pretending he's not eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Purple," she declares after she swallows the first bite of her tart. It's a cup of Darjeeling tea this time, which, since when did Cafe Luna serve tea? It's probably Boyd's doing, if he had to guess. Definitely his favorite Beta.

"It's a regal color and I look really good in it," she explains. It takes a second for Derek to catch up and realize she's just told him her favorite color.

"You really do," his voice lowers to a thick burr, "look beautiful in purple."

She can barely contain the smile that erupts on her face at the genuine compliment.

A few bites later, she's gesturing at his outfit with her fork. "Please tell me your favorite color isn't black. I'm guessing that Camaro outside is yours?"

"Yeah it's mine. My sister gave it to me- she's a mechanic and has her own garage on the other side of town." Derek clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. It's getting a bit long. He doesn't miss the way her eyes glaze over as she looks at his rather impressive biceps.

"I like the color green, though."

He ignores the way Stiles turns around in his seat and clasps his hands and mouths an exaggerated '_Awww, how sweet!_' behind Lydia's back.

That night, he calls his sister. "I found my mate," he lets out in a rush," and she's making me _woo_ _her_." The last is said with barely veiled irritation and distaste. Laura, herself happily Mated with two little boys, just laughs at him. He lets her go on for a few more minutes. "You done yet? Or am I going to have to ask _Uncle Peter_ for advice?"

"She's not wrong, you know," Laura says after Derek recaps the events of the past week. "Just finding your mate doesn't make the relationship magically work. Rory and I had a few nasty wakeup calls and remember those times I'd go stay with Mom and Dad for a day or two? And not every Mated pair works out."

"I get that, I do. Just," he huffs with frustration. "What can I do to prove to her that we can make it?"

"Just keep doing what you're doing right now."

"_What the fuck kind of advice is that_?" He snarls into the cell phone.

Laura just laughs at him again, "Well, think about it Der-Der. She's still coming around to see you, isn't she?"

The weeks pass like this, with Lydia coming in and Derek giving her something different every time. Business had never been better, partially because word had spread that the Alpha that owned Café Luna had found his mate, and partially because Lydia kept inspiring all these new desserts that people were finding irresistible.

They would sit together and talk while Lydia ate her treat and drank her coffee. He told her about his family, she told him about her research for her Ph.D in mathematics. Derek told her flat out he doesn't care who the breadwinner is in _whatever relationship he ends up having_ with _whomever._

He's politically more conservative than she, but they agree on most big topics. They're both morning people. That they both sleep on the left side of the bed (his question) maybe a small sticking point later on.

She loves Mexican food and considers herself a decent cook. He's a bit of a health nut, it seems, but she appears intrigued by his claim to produce the best baked ziti she will ever have in this life.

They both hate scallops.

Autumn is her favorite season; Spring his.

He prefers classic Rock, and she confesses to being drawn towards the old and great female blues/jazz singers. "I don't know why, I just do," is all she can say by way of reasoning. He listens to some of the singers she lists, and he thinks he gets it.

They talk about important, future-building stuff, too.

When, around mouthfuls of apricot croissant, she tells him she wants five children, Derek thinks:

_Fuck._

Not because that many kids scare him (it kind of does, though), but because he's suddenly realized he's fallen in love with her. And it really is like having his throat cut, just as fast.

"That sounds perfect," is what he says.


	3. Consume While Hot

One Wednesday, she doesn't come in. The novelty had worn off for his pack, so it was only the scheduled employees, Erica and Boyd, in Café Luna with him.

He could go by her apartment. It's not that he's stalking her or anything or standing across from the apartment building like a creeper…Stiles had came in one day and slapped a folder down in front of Derek.

"Here. Everything you need to know about Lydia Jean Martin, courtesy of my Google-fu skills!" Stiles had looked so proud, like a puppy who'd brought his master a present. Derek didn't have the heart to tell him he'd already looked most of this information up the night he met Lydia. So he had taken the folder and ground out a reluctant, "Thank you."

But the point is, Derek doesn't want to assume anything by her not showing up today. She might be sick, Omegas could still get sick with human ailments. Or she might have an appointment. He tries not to be disappointed by the lack of message…they hadn't exchanged numbers. And if he's being truthful with himself, there is a mild level of panic that she's decided she doesn't want to accept him as a mate.

He _misses_ her. He'd gotten used to her being there three days a week, used to being able to talk to her, used to her presence in his life.

He's short with the customers today and downright grouchy with his employees. When Isaac comes in mid-afternoon to take over for Boyd, who needed to help out his grandmother, he takes one look at Derek and the conspicuous lack of a petite redhead at her usual booth, and grins.

"She had something to take care of today, that's why she's not in. She'll probably be back on Saturday, like usual."

Derek levels Isaac with a suspicious glare, "How the fuck would you know this?"

"Oh," his Beta says innocently, "didn't any of us tell you? We all had dinner with Lydia last night. It was fun, we talked a lot about you."

Derek experiences a slow, sustained sinking feeling in his gut as he considers what his pack, plus Scott and Stiles (and probably Allison) could have told her. He hadn't wanted them around her unsupervised because they could scare her off. When he comes out of his near catatonic trance, Isaac is pre-emptively cleaning the bathroom. That leaves him with Erica, who's restocking today's special— brioche au chocolat, chosen because it was one of the most difficult recipes to make, which helped to distract him from the trainwreck that was his love life. She's clearly waiting for him to ask, and because Derek is a masochist, he does.

"Where'd you guys go for dinner, anyways?"

Erica pretends to look concerned when she answers him, "Didn't Isaac say? We all went to your parents' house and had dinner with your entire family. Don't worry, I think they all adore her. Laura even showed Lydia your baby pictures."

Of course, because Derek's life is hard, Chris Argent swaggers into Café Luna as he's closing up.

"I hear you've met your mate, and I wanted to offer you my congratulations," the older man says insincerely. He's casually running a finger over the just-cleaned glass of the display case, smudging t with his fingerprints. "Allison seems quite taken with her, and I've reconciled myself with the likely probability that Allison and Scott are going to join your little pack. I'm sure you understand that as her father, I have certain concerns-"

Derek interrupts him, "I know she's not Kate. I'm not going to punish her for Kate. Your daughter's more tolerable than most my pack." Chris looks somewhat satisfied with that answer and starts to leave.

"Oh," he says, as if he's just remembered something. Derek rolls his eyes. "I also heard that Lydia has been playing hard to get. If I may give you a bit of advice, being married to a fiercely independent and singularly accomplished woman, myself… perhaps a public display would be in order. Not that you need to grovel or humiliate yourself, just make it clear to her that she will have a place of equally high standing and honor within your pack. Letting your mate do what she wants would be better for your relationship in the long run."

Derek has met Victoria Argent, there was no 'letting' going on there. Chris is grinning as he exits the café. Derek growls and grabs the spray can of cleaner and starts wiping down the display case again. As if he's going to take Argent's advice. _Fucker can't even button his shirts up properly_.

Speaking of Allison, Derek gets a brilliant idea as he walks into his dark apartment.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he scrolls down to 'Merida2' and hits the 'call' symbol. It takes a few rings for Allison to pick up, sounding confused.

"Hello…uh, who's this?"

"It's Derek. I have a favor to ask."

She sounds reluctant, "Sure, if I can help, I could try…"

"Can you check in on Lydia, just make sure she's alright and then let me know. But don't tell her I asked you to," he amends in a rush.

There's a moment of silence on the phone, and Derek is afraid Allison is going to hang up on him. But then she lets out a high-pitched squeal, "Awwww! You're _worried_ about her! That's adorable!"

Derek is _not_ adorable.

"No, no, I'm just ensuring that my mate is alive and well. It's…standard operating procedure. You wouldn't understand, not having been born into the culture."

He can tell from the tone in her "uh-huh" that she doesn't believe him. "Well," she says brightly, "I'll drop by her place later and see how she's doing. I'm sure she'll be happy to know you were thinking of her today- women love to know they're missed." And with that, the dial tone is buzzing in his ear.

_Fucking Argents._

Derek was off the Thursday he got a text from Erica telling him to get the fuck down to the café.

_We're closing, Lydia's here. U need 2 get here ASAP_

Derek lets himself into the back using his key. When he stalks into the kitchen, he stops dead in his tracks. Lydia is lounging on top of the large and heavy marble table he uses to work, covered in flour, with several treats spread out in front of her. A fork lies abandoned on the table near her elbow, and she's using her fingers to scoop out pieces of a dark chocolate pudding and caramel tart. She moans around a mouthful and looks at him.

He catches the heavy scent of arousal in the air. She's a day or two out of her Heat. He growls and cranes his neck as his wolf rears, wanting to come out and claim her. He gets his fangs and claws under control and prowls nearer.

"Petrichor," she says.

"Hnh?" He realizes he probably just cocked his head to the side like a wolf.

"Petrichor. The smell of the earth after rain. That's what I smelled the day I walked into the café. I knew who you were, then. I just… I had to be sure." Lydia twists her body around until she's sitting on the edge of the counter. Derek takes a chance and steps up until he's nearly touching her knees.

"And are you?"

"Not entirely," she admits with a small shrug, lips quirking upwards. Her arms curl around the back of Derek's shoulders and his neck, pulling him closer. "But that'll be half the fun, I think." He brushes his nose against the softness of her cheek, inhaling the subtleties in her scent. His hands are sliding around her waist and curving up her spine. He presses a not-chaste kiss against her cheekbone, and she inhales sharply.

"I like your pack," the words come bubbling out of her mouth, "even the strange human, Stiles. You know, Allison is going to join us."

_Us, us, she said 'us'_, his wolf howled, roiling underneath his skin. Derek the man groans, "Yeah, those two will pretty much come with Scott." He presses a wet kiss against the skin below her lower lip. Her hands are clutching at him harder; she's practically groping his abs. Derek just moves back up and brushes his lips against the curve of one eyebrow.

She shudders. "I like getting my own way and I'm difficult, and you should know I steal the covers." It's Derek's turn to shiver a bit when her hands find their way underneath his shirt and this time, he kisses her on the lips, just a gentle, steady pressure before backing away.

"One: I'm a werewolf, I have a higher body temperature. You can keep the covers, or better yet, I can keep you warm."

Lydia removes her hands from his shirt and cups his face in between and kisses him. Her tongue is licking against the seam of his lips and he makes himself back away again.

"Two: I like you when you're difficult."

She's panting before him, but there's a smile growing on her lips, and her eyes are twinkling playfully, "And three?"

He grins wolfishly at her, "And Three: you won't _always_ get your own way, and we'll fight, then make up." And then he's laying her down on the countertops and sliding his tongue into her mouth. Several minutes later, when he's diligently applying himself to putting a hickey on her neck, Lydia stops the progress of his hands underneath her skirt.

"I really like today's tart. Chocolate and caramel happens to be my favorite combination." Derek could taste it on her earlier. "But didn't you say everything tastes better with _cream_?"

He freezes at that, and lifts his head up to stare at her. Lydia's curls have come undone, thanks to the amount of times he had combed his hands through the strands and curled them around his fist, and her lips are swollen because he couldn't help biting down on them a little. His are probably little better—he's discovered that Lydia really likes to bite; she had nearly reduced him to pudding when she had began nibbling on his neck and earlobe.

A lightbulb goes on above Derek's head when he figures out what she means. He smiles down at her and straightens up. "Yeah, I did say that," he agrees, and roughly spreads her knees apart. "But as I recall, you didn't quite believe me."

He extends a claw and uses it to tear her panties from her body. Lydia just gives him the challenging arch of her eyebrow that he's come to appreciate.

"Well, maybe you should get to proving me wrong." Derek smiles and bends his head down low.

As far as sayings went, the cat didn't get the canary.

But the wolf got the cream.

In his apartment they're in his bed, snuggled on their sides, her back to his front. He's still inside her. She's wriggling her bottom a bit and shuddering when his knot bumps her cervix. Her feet are a bit cold still, but she must get pedicures frequently because they're soft as they brush against the coarse hair on his shins and her hair is a mess and she has red patches all over her body from his beard and he can feel the silkiness of her nipples from where she's braced between his forearm and his chest and he can't stop caressing the freckled skin along her shoulder and neck until she shivers and drowsily tells him to stop and he's tugging her earlobe between his lips and in between telling her why Dostoyevsky's _The Idiot_ is his favorite novel, he slides his fingers between her legs and begins to rub in steady circles.

Lydia can't move too much, thanks to his knot, so all she can do is dig her nails into his forearms and squirm and shudder until she's fluttering around him again. He holds her all night.

When he wakes up in the morning, his pack has left food by the front door. Derek only rolls his eye at the cake, decorated by Erica, that says '_Congrats On UR Sex_'.

Epilogue

Derek adored his mate. Lydia was terrifying but cared for her mate and her new pack in her own particular way. Derek was so cunt-struck, he didn't object overmuch when she informed him that she came with three pack members. Derek didn't like Jackson, he thought the blond jock was shallow and needy. But Danny came with Jackson, and for a human, he was pretty brilliant. He provided another stabilizing influence, the way Boyd or Scott did, but Danny was more gregarious. And then there was Prada, Lydia's dog. Derek categorically refused to consider a pet 'pack'.

Prada hated Jackson, and that always made Derek feel better, though.

Within six months of meeting his mate, Derek's pack grew to include: one Alpha, his Omega mate, five Betas, and three Humans.

Within a year, there's an eleventh pack member (_twelfth_, Lydia would insist): little Violet Luna, seven pounds and four ounces of unholy terror packaged in the form of an adorable dark-haired and murky-eyed baby girl with dimples and an affinity for drooling all over her Uncle Stiles.

Derek thinks it's kind of perfect.


End file.
